Story of a Day

Tea

2011-10-12T22:21:00.000-04:00

They lie there, legs entwined, steeped in history and bubbling over

Needing sugar and having none

It's a bitter end but one they can't stop sipping

Made easier by a general lack of clothes and

words

Til it hits the stove and burns the pot

Makes it too hot to stay

in the kitchen

So they curl, from now

til they get smoked out

Letter to the Ellipsis

2011-08-20T11:26:00.001-04:00

I told them you died. Honestly, I did. It didn’t seem necessary; how could thinking, breathing human beings with all five senses intact miss the coldness of the shell you left behind? It didn’t make sense, having to tell them something so obvious. I really tried though. For you. Maybe if they know you’re dead, they can bring you back.

I know you’re gone because I know what it feels like to be missing a piece of me now; you took it with you, wherever you went. I’d like to think you’re someplace nice, preserved in the heart of time, finally at peace. And that’s okay, really. I understand why you had to leave. This world was too much for you from the very beginning… you weren’t ready for the way it would relentlessly break you down, force you into becoming something we couldn’t blame you for turning into. Of course it won. Of course you’re gone. I want that piece back (that hole can’t be filled by anything else, you see), but I forgot to reclaim it before you left, if there was ever a way to.

…Your friends are acting just like you did in your last hours, you know. Maybe they’ve caught your disease. They’re telling me the most ridiculous lies. They say I’m wrong. They say you’re alive.

Unless they’re sick too, why would they say that?

They keep pointing out this person, this person who possesses features devilishly similar to yours, saying he’s you. You have to help me understand, because if you were here I know you’d be able to help me understand… how could they even compare this person to you? Same height, same build, sure, but your friends, your true friends, should know better. This person doesn’t have your smile. He doesn’t move or laugh or even speak the way you do.

And he doesn’t recognize me.

I would know you if you were alive; I would recognize you in all forms, in this life, in the next fifty. So I know they can’t possibly be telling the truth. All they need to do is look. Why aren’t they looking?

If you can hear me, know that I know the truth. They won’t ever get me to believe that you’re still here; I watched you leave myself, frozen into a place that wouldn’t let me say goodbye; I felt that hole open up, I know the frigidity of a heart stopped too soon.

Let me mourn peacefully.

Make them stop lying to me.

Finding My Meaning

2011-04-13T20:47:00.003-04:00

I was meant for much more than this.

These hands you hold are the tools of creation

The writers of these times, arrangers of music

For feet that were meant to dance,

But lost their rhythm in the tapping of your foot.

Freedom looms for these fingers that spin,

Tangling threads as they try to make silk,

Spelling instead the universal code for suffering

Upon the sand these legs followed you to.

And there’s no air here;

Okay for lungs that forgot how to

Breathe

Ages ago, settling for holding

Turning blue in the absence of the exhale

That will take their use from them,

Rendering them obsolete to an audience that doesn’t exist

Leaving only these lips

To read the obituary

And mourn in silence…

I was meant for so much more than empty rooms

Desolate landscapes of black skies and fallen stars

Beauty to these eyes would be seeing the sun

Beyond your fetters and your chains.

This mind rebels, fights their gaze from the ground,

Urging them to cast out, to move,

To find that sun and rise from this place…

But this heart won’t let them look past you

And realize that the steel is of my own forging.

Epiphany!!

2011-03-17T09:30:00.000-04:00

   He treats you the way he does because he can; why waste precious energy talking to a column when it's always going to hold the roof up anyway? Why pay attention if collapse isn't imminent? It's been here for years; it isn't likely to go anywhere anytime soon.
   I think you know what I'm going to say next. That's right. Collapse. Let the roof cave in on him, and make sure he knows his column collapsed out of neglect. You needed to be spackled, polished, cared for and kept, and he failed. Don't let him blame you for doing what all things do when left to decay. Nature weathered you, life toiled at you, hands made you rough, smooth and rough again, breathy words made pieces of you fall , and still he did nothing. Let him dig himself out of your ruin.
   You'll rise again, someday. You'll make your appearance in the history books, heralded for your beauty, your steadfastness, your staying power even though you lie on the ground. Someone will write the story you deserve, build the reconstruction you need, and bring others to marvel at your grandeur.

I

2011-02-24T18:59:00.001-05:00

I am the girl who falls in love with all the wrong people, afraid to be broken past the point of bouncing back, deflated, striving to fix untouchable pasts and form futures that aren't fragile.

I am the boy who loved justly and fell wrong, stumbled to my knees in the tide that waits for none. Drowning, reaching to right my life and saving "sorry"s like thorns in my paw.

I am the woman who grew stout and cold, swaying to a song that doesn't reach my heart, writing new lines with uncaring eyes and ink-less pens.

I am the man who conquers hearts, rides lies like a white knight for kings, races rockets to the moon and fakes fury when I fall short, covering wounds.

I am unbound, unbidden, unwanted, and not ready.

I am exactly who you made me.

Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?

2011-02-15T20:04:00.000-05:00

She isn't like you.

And she doesn’t want to be

posturing for the enemy,

forcing lies past slack lips

doing the homework in the eleventh hour

to answer your questions

that patronize and satirize

her dreams...

Those she wants to give up

for love, and family

intangible happiness whose yellow

doesn't match the sickly green of yours…

This is okay, really.

It’s clearly not where you should be

Or could be if you could open those eyes

and see that your prize doesn’t lie at the end of your ride

But you won’t get out of the car,

'cause you’d have to take your seatbelt off to do it

That which keeps you in line,

gives direction to a life that not so secretly has none

Searching for some, seeking solace

And not finding.

So you lash out,

and you force

and you sneer and snipe

She lies untouched, in your mind

And your bed

Closed off from you and better for it

Mad because she can’t

And sad because you would

…If you could.

Loner

2010-11-23T13:03:00.002-05:00

I'm lonely, but so are you

You can call it solidarity,

sympathetic empathetic decency

Be decent and cover up

put your clothes back on and

hug your truth to your chest

shove your wallet back in

and get the hell out.

To call it solidarity

is an insult they keep using

I'm mocking it when I agree

Knowing the words 'til it's a part of me

Shouting I'm in control

While wheels slip from slack hands

And I understand the last stand

Will be made by us on our knees.

You are so, lonely, but I'm

calling it solidarity too

Taking life as a line at a time

A script I'm not following

Asks me to read but I'm blind

This is a world with no braille,

You can't feel your way through

Stars

2010-11-11T19:07:00.001-05:00

I connect the dots and find constellations
removed from skies
And I want to claim this prize
So far from where it should be
originated
Close now to here, caged and abated
Sheltered, healed and closed,
fraught with foolery and foolishness
Edging to the door with eyes open wide
Dying already and assuming it's died
Anything to speed the life
Of one so young

Catch

2010-11-11T19:04:00.000-05:00

And so we grope

Wanting more and asking

For none

Blind eyes are turned to

needing more from you

And so we cope

And desire, and cry

and perspire

Reaching, grasping

scratching your back and catching at

straws

Scars

are all we end up with.

Change

2010-10-01T21:11:00.005-04:00

I could write long lying lines

about how I hate you.

Counting the ways too carefully

catching smoke in my hands

and forcing thoughts from my head,

I'd follow you

down into that hole I dug, scraping carefully at rocks

and keeping the dirt in jars

while I let off fireworks labeled

"asshole!", "liar", "cheat"

to distract

saving secrets for summer

in case it should get hot

and you should

want me again

Manipulation

2010-09-20T15:28:00.010-04:00

I think he's manipulating you. Changing you, like a light, from red to green, driving into and under you, forcing your feet from the floor and your head into the clouds, never letting you settle, hanging you by the throat from his bedpost.

I think he is manipulating you. Pulling your insides to your outside, seeing your heart on your sleeve and shouting 'not good enough', demanding that hearts cover you, printing them onto your shirt, grabbing you by your shirt, forcing fables on you and terrorizing what you know.

I think that he is manipulating you. Easing his tune over ears new to sound, laying you down to listen, impregnating your imagination, slipping softly through the gaps and strapping you to him.

I think he's manipulating you.

Up the Block

2010-08-20T01:03:00.005-04:00

Her mention of his house killed my night. I can pinpoint the descent of my mood into hell right there, by mere mention of the fact that he lived a scant block away from where we stood. So close to and yet so far from me. The emotional distance meant nothing; his simple physical presence knotted my butterflies to breaking, crippling their wings and making my stomach feel as if a lead weight had settled onto the bottom.

I thought about the distance. Miles to go, inches to travel. Up the block was a place my feet could take me but my mind wouldn't go.. I would show up on his doorstep, looking to get my heart back, and find his arms as closed as ever, forced to that position by his fear of opening them. Of opening them to me.

And that would hurt, the way it's been hurting, sitting angrily next to that lead weight, infinitesimally small and infinitely binding. His was a face that wouldn't fade, that wouldn't go away, that would haunt me for decades.

As I stood there, the distance not to him but to peace crashed into me. It stretched away from me, a lonely path whose very coloring whispered lonliness, insecurity, longing, jealousy. A deeply chilling desire to turn my back on that path gripped me, but my next inhale brought the scent of calm to me. It might look like miles, but the end promised me more of that air. So much of it, in fact, that I might remember how to breathe.

"Wanna walk past? He's probably outside." I looked again at that path, and took another breath of that promised air.

"Nah."

Waiting

2010-08-20T00:57:00.003-04:00

I'm waiting for you.

We haven't seen each other much at all, but I know you're on your way.

I met you once in the late night reassurance of a friend, during a lonely time. You dodged in and out of mind, stroked my arm as i reached for another cookie, said the right words at the right times.

You left that night, but I heard you on the radio. You whispered through the tune of that new song I love, reminded me. Soothed my ears with your melody. I knew I'd see you again.

I spoke, and recognized your intellect in the words of a stranger, identified your wit and your humor in the mischevious grin of a child.

I breathed your air on a mountaintop, far from people, voices, crowds, smog. It was a crisp awakening, and in it I saw you once more, opening your eyes next to me with a smile.

You cared gently for my cat the time it swallowed that string, and cradled me in flourescent orange plastic as I sat in the waiting room, needing to hear that he was alright.

You laughed over the beep of my home security system as I set it at night, reminding, cajoling, insisting you'd protect me.

And I was comforted.

I'm waiting for you. I don't know your name, I don't know how tall you are. I don't know if you've ever cared for a cat, or what your favorite color is. But I love you. And I know you're coming as fast as you can. And I'm waiting for you.

Sickening.

2010-07-27T18:27:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I'll find something out about you that makes me sick. My stomach will hurt, my hands will feel weak, sweat will come out of pores I've forgotten existed and time will slow to drag it all out. A headache will swing by to top it all off, and then I feel disgusted with myself for bothering to be upset at all. As if I could bother. You can't keep your affairs under wraps, and for that, I suffer, I get sick, I barf words and curse through a throat too tightly closed to even breathe through. My trust is betrayed and my body rejects you like any other virus.

What it doesn't understand is that you live continued, unfettered, infallible and made stronger by resistance, in me. Fevers don't burn you out, you give me those all the time. Withdrawal symptoms can't be treated, and will bows before you and all that you are.

2010-07-02T23:27:00.004-04:00

He never spoke. His words were lyrics, his steps choreography. Dance wasn't mine, but his pure performances drew me to follow his feet. We never danced together, always seperate, me one step behind. He avoided standing still with all of the fear of a man courting death. His fear was an infection, catching as colds do. So I remained hot with him, catching his sickness but never his beat. The tune wasn't mine to hear.

Eventually all things grind to a halt, inevitably. The loss of the music left us speechless, trapped with vocal cords not meant to speak, atrophied. If we weren't singing, we weren't living. We cease, and our song plays on radios and in headsets, forever torn by the static of a missing note. He made the beats.

First

2010-07-02T23:26:00.001-04:00

We keep doing this dance

These encores

To the bravos of empty seats

First on stage.

Last to leave

We rose with the curtain

And for this, we refuse to fall

The lights will come down

Freed seats, left unfilled

And we'll continue to move

onstage

Even after the orchestra's died

because we were First

Sameness

2010-07-02T23:25:00.001-04:00

I was the other woman. I didn't feel like it. I tried to make sense of it, tried to pinpoint how a Woman With Morals could become one who didn't care. He says we're meant for each other, can't forget each other because I was first, always. He says he's always loved me and always will.Others have. Lied that way. "Don't need anything else when I'm with you"... that other one, he called me bitter. Bitter, or bruised? And now I'm out to bitterly bruise someone else? He has a girlfriend yet I stay, for the way he fits into my arms, for the ease of talking to him. That other, he smites it with one side of his mouth and encourages it with the other. Two faced bastard. Just like me, two faced and bastardly. Love or leave him? When the choice is to leave him and love him. Selfish really.
That other, he's the reason. He took himself out of the picture, took peace of mind with him. And still he cuts, bitterly. Back I bounced, and here I land. On triangular ground. She loves him loves me loves him. We've got the odds, the majority. Win.

I Want You to Know

2009-12-31T23:50:00.003-05:00

I want you to know that I'm mad.

I want you to know that you hurt me,

Cut deeper than anyone ever has.

When I talk to you, I refuse laughs, smiles

Happiness

Because I need you to remember, every second

That you changed me.

I want you to remember,

And I want you to be ashamed.

Otherwise,

You might forget me.

Could

2009-07-03T21:36:00.002-04:00

I could hate you for what you do
For breaking my spirit
For crushing the dream
A dream, our dream
Mine
Yet you do all this and still you shine
On that pedestal I raised you to
I could hate you for what you do

Death of a Clown

2009-06-23T04:00:00.005-04:00

It's 4 am exactly. She slumps in front of her computer screen, marking the time and wondering why or how she could even notice such an insignificant thing through the haze of pain she feels clouding her vision. Haze of pain. Nice way to say tears. There's a vague sensation of defeat somewhere in her chest, as if she just lost a game of volleyball in front of a gym full of people. No, more like losing the superbowl in a stadium packed to the rafters.
The question of who was playing on the winning team floats through her mind, and she takes a moment to mull over it. The sadness laps at the edges of her heart and for a moment she can't breathe, can only cry and hope that her control doesn't slip and she doesn't start screaming.
Regaining control is hard and distinctly out of the realm of "fun".
The person playing on the other team.. the team that beat her ass... was another version of herself. The romantic, idealistic one who thought everything would be okay. The one with a heart, who couldn't bear to go the other way once that heart was involved. The one who almost lost her mind when he left. The one who died when it became apparent that he didn't care.
The side that remains ... knows that after this it won't feel anything for a long time. The part of her that's left knows what it feels like to have to turn off emotion in order to keep from breaking apart. She knows that nothing will ever make it better, and so accepts the scar and covers it up. she knows that pretending nothing is wrong is the first step to pushing the pain back and forgetting it. The side that's left feels anger, feels sadness, but pushes it back because she must. She puts it in the grave with the dead optimist.
She knows that the pain may fade, but memories of him never will.
She knows that in time, the other side will grow back, and drag her into more trouble. And she'll take those scars just like these.
She knows all this and yet she prays that one day she'll make the right choice. That one day there will be one who makes both halves of her stand up and take note. Maybe one day there won't be any more scars to cover.
Or maybe she'll just kill that idealist.

And he doesn't even know that he was the only one she was thinking of on her birthday. He doesn't know that all he had to do was remember it.

Hoping to feel better.

2009-06-23T03:57:00.003-04:00

I don't hate you.

I want to, don't get me wrong.

It's me that I hate

Cause it took me so long

And so many tears and sacrifice and days

To see through you

Right to your wicked ways

(yes, i know that's cliched)

There wasn't, isn't, anything I wouldn't do

For you, and you know it

That's why it's okay for you not to care

Cause "she'll always be there"

Ire.

2009-02-04T00:40:00.002-05:00

I am a means to an end.
A train grinding rails
Running from and going to
Nothing and nowhere.

I am a means to an end.
A hammer, pounding nails
Left to rust in a box
In the basement.

I am a means to an end.
A fleet, setting sails
Around the world
To ruin.

I am a end...
To your means.

End of the road

2009-02-01T00:27:00.004-05:00

It isn't here that this opened
Nor is it here that it will close.
It isn't here that you joined me on my path.
Or started on your own
And it isn't here that the journey ends.
Mine will, someday, near here
But not near you
See, you aspire to greater things
You'll reach heights I'll never see
And that will be okay.
Everything's as it's meant to be.

Let it down.

2009-01-30T20:28:00.003-05:00

She told me to make a list

Pros and cons, cons and pros.

Side by side on either side of the line

Which one wins?

Who knows.

So we got some paper

We got a pen,

I wrote it up,

It let us down.

Ties are meant for necks

Shoelaces and loafs of bread

Not lists that decide your choice

And if I had thought ahead

I wouldn't have wasted my time

Or one solitary sheet

Cause I'd see that fate's the foe

I'm trying futilely to beat.

So let it let me down

Or bring me up again

I can't stop this rise and fall

With the best laid plans of mice and men.

2009-01-22T21:16:00.005-05:00

She spoke quietly, as if the wind taking the words from her lips would make them less true. Salt water sprayed her face, frigid to anyone else, enjoyable for her. It was as if she couldn't feel the biting chill of the negative temperatures around her.

She had something to say, a conversation to finish, a speech that would rival any spoken on a podium... and damnit, she meant to finish it.

On an evening like this one, with storms on the horizon, and red-sun tipped waves crashing against the bluff on which she stood, she could argue. She could yell, scream, cry, lose her voice... on an evening like this one, if she wanted to, she could imagine her words reaching a person, with all the security of knowing that they wouldn't. She could say things designed to hurt, meant to cut... and have them ripped from her and taken away, weights removed from her shoulders.

She could. Or, she could speak quietly. She could say the things that hurt her, the fears and the sadnesses that plague her mind. She could tell those waves about the people she misses, speak the words that weigh on her in an entirely different manner.

And the wind would take them the same. And the waves would keep crashing, and they wouldn't judge. And it would all cover her speech, silence her voice, yet make it louder than it would ever be if she kept it all inside.

And when she finishes her speech, the waves will accept her the same way they accept the wind. And they'll keep crashing,

And the wind will take her the same.

Distance

2008-11-23T21:55:00.005-05:00

Every other day will be hard,
And every other month, the same
In this other world, apart
Will this other heart have pain.

To my other side, we go
In another place I know
For those other skies, alight
Of other horizons, right?

No other will there be
None other beside me
When you, other, return
We...
Another other we'll be.

The Poet

2008-09-12T11:07:00.003-04:00

"Write it for me", he says, making her smile and comforting her with 4 small words.

Pen goes to paper, but somehow writing it for him is more difficult than writing it for a room full of people. His opinion alone matters more than the opinions of 24 relative strangers, and it bothers her that she doesn't know why.

She is by no means a foolish girl, but she certainly feels foolish when contemplating thoughts of him. A smile or a compliment from him causes desire and warm happiness to curl in her stomach like a sleeping cat... and being ignored by him produces an odd, bothersome feeling, like knocking the funnybone. Silly, she thinks, straight up foolish. Impossible to feel this way. Wrong to feel this way. He won't be hers, he can't be hers, and she can't be his.

So why not just let it go?

Why not move on?

Because, quite frankly, she doesn't want to. What she wants to let go of is the safety bar she's been clutching all her life. She wants to release her heart, to finally go for something she really wants without thought of consequences or fear or pain or anything, to just feel and give and take without ...

Sense?

Grace given by Ghostmobile

2008-09-11T00:25:00.004-04:00

She sits on the bus, automatically stepping around and tuning out the Christian missionary who wanders up the aisle on tired feet. Even without being able to hear him, her eyes are drawn to the easy way he moves, to the certainty and conviction that is evident even in a stride hobbled by the small dimensions of public transportation. People bump into him, the bus stops short, his feet are stepped on, and he apologizes and continues his pacing and his speaking, up and down, up and down.

The repetitious motion settles into her very bones, and suddenly she finds herself more attuned to his movements than to the movements of the drummer nestled in her earbuds.

An old woman settles into the seat beside her and mutters a heartfelt "hallelujah" that somehow is heard over the thumping bass of rap music turned too loud.

The atmosphere of the bus suddenly seems more calm, yet more focused. Startled by the change, she looks around, yet can note no physical changes. In facing the front again, her eye is caught.

Outside of the bus, on the back of a tow truck, is hoisted the original Ghostbusters mobile, complete with lights and "no ghosts" sign. The odd rarity of the moment gives her pause, and she removes an earbud to fully appreciate it.

At that moment the old woman speaks. "You're beautiful!" Glancing over at her seat mate, she nods and smiles a thank you. In this moment, the other earbud comes out. Her mother raised her to respect people, and keeping earphones in while someone obviously wishes to speak to you is not a mark of respect.

It does have the unexpected effect of making the missionary perfectly heard, every word.

Realizing that the old woman has nothing more to say and is just staring at her, She moves to put her earbud back in.

"A just man doesn't NOT fall, a just man falls perfectly."

The line gives her pause. Never before has she heard anyone preach that it is okay to fall, in such straightforward words. The words illicit strange feelings within, soft, comforting feelings like the brush of a mother's hand on the hair or the understanding of a friend.

She feels no need to put her music back in. Now she is listening, and listening hard. A hunger for more comfort, for more uplifting words flares bright within her, and she can't imagine tuning this man out for another second.

Words fall from his lips and wrap around her like a security blanket, and for once she feels that it is truly alright for her to be the way she is. She's never been a very religious person, always thirsting for the devout, blind faith that others seem to be able to grasp. She'd always been unable to take an interest in the posturing and loud gestures of the most dedicated members of the church, loving instead the quiet calm relationship that one has with a father.

Although she had always thought of God as her savior, as "the big guy", the "one", it never occured to her that she would stand up under His scrutiny. A fear she hadn't even fully realized gnawed away at her psyche in the quiet moments, or the loud ones involving other members of the faith.

Tears come to her eyes as she continues to listen, finally feeling as if this man, this preacher, this person is the firsthand experience that always seemed to happen to everyone else. In that moment, it isn't some random man rambling on a bus. In that moment, her father is speaking to her. In that moment, a silent worry is lifted from her shoulders, and she is told that her flaws are truly okay. In that moment, she feels more fulfilled than she has ever felt in any church, more comforted than she has felt in any arms.

For once, it is okay that she doesn't want to stand up and sing.

In that moment, the tears in her eyes and the song in her heart are finally loud enough.

Stupid stupid me

2008-09-11T00:22:00.003-04:00

So I called him and
I got mad again
To him I'm a stranger
One he expects to know
And I try to understand
And not make even one demand
But love doesn't count
Not even a little
Not even a lot
There's nothing to do
Cause now I know that in
Love
He is not.

Unconditional

2008-09-11T00:20:00.001-04:00

To have you unconditionally would be
Unafraid of you leaving me
It wouldn’t wake me in the night
And everything would finally be alright
Because without you…
What am I supposed to do?
Cause, unconditionally,
You have me.

Ranting and Raving

2008-08-27T12:21:00.000-04:00

Loving you is like catching smoke
It slips through my fingers,
Frustrates me,
Yet I feel somehow that it's worth it
All this trouble,
To catch a dream.

For you I'd wreck a home,
Turn my back on someone better
Put my heart on the chopping block
And let you take control
I'm damaged, broken, I feel it
Yet here I am.

So crucify me, please
Let the fool stand guard forever
Over your heart and your mind
You are the best of me,
And you are the WORST
Do me a favor and let this end...

2008-07-29T00:42:00.000-04:00

Another really hot day of summer.
I'd trekked the 5 blocks between home and the store, feeling the whole time as if i were a lost wanderer in some distant desert. Cold soda never looked better, and neither had the freezer unit they were stacked in. After opening the door, i wanted to climb in and just sit there for a while.
Unfortunately, I couldnt. Instead, I began to circle the tiny place, looking for a snack that would satisfy my sudden craving for sugar.
My favorite brownies caught my eye, and I snagged a few of the small treats, as they were something like thirty five cents a pop. The five dollars I had in my pocket suddenly made me feel rich.
Turning to place my bounty on the counter, I noticed a little girl already there. She carried a backpack, and looked as hot and tired as I felt. She was obviously fresh from school, and stopping by with whatever money she had in hopes of getting a snack.
Her face was twisted up in that frown that children get when they're truly upset about something.
The shopkeeper turned his apologetic gaze from her to me, shaking his head slightly.
"You don't have enough", he said to her by way of dismissal, motioning for me to purchase my snacks.
The girl unwillingly laid a candy bar back down on the counter and lifted a little bottle of water instead.
Suddenly I remembered, REALLY remembered, what it was like to be as young as her. The humiliation of not having enough in a store, the empty feeling of having to leave without that treat you've been craving all day.
"How much does she need?" I asked the shopkeeper, who looked at me with some confusion.
"A dollar" he replied, still looking at me as if I had grown another eye.
I almost laughed at the silliness of it. Such sadness over a simple dollar?
Then I recalled how rich five dollars had made me feel just a moment before.
A dollar is alot, when you need it.
Smiling at the girl, I handed her a dollar. She took it slowly, as if she wasnt quite sure what to make of it, then returned my smile.
I almost didn't need my brownies after that.

Almost.

Gross.

2008-07-28T23:15:00.000-04:00

A little window on her screen flashes orange, alerting her to another instant message.
The thrill of a yet to be read message leaves her as she maximizes the screen.
"Hey" has never looked so disgusting before.
Of course, she's not seeing "Hey".
She sees clothing coming off.
Lips touching, hands groping...
Two people being where they shouldn't, going where they shouldn't.
And she's disgusted.
With him? With herself. With them.
She smells him, she tastes him, she FEELS him...
And there isnt enough hot water and soap in the world to wash him off
To wash him OUT... of her skin and her mind..
She's disgusted.
And she doesnt feel she has the right to be... he's a friend, a pal.
Someone she should love...
But the experiment's turned him awry.
Changed it all.
And now there's no choice.
She has to be done with it, with him...
With this conversation.
She signs out.

Mr. Fix It

2008-04-30T03:35:00.000-04:00

She forced her eyes to see a connection where there was none. Traveling mechanics only fix the pipes, they're not staying. They've got other appointments. And she knew that from the start. Poor silly girl, she tried to cage a cloud of smoke, and hadn't planned for failure. So now here we are, in her fall, at the end of all things, and she's not okay, not yet.
But she's reached a critical point.
Common sense and her naturally optimistic nature are once again, once again winning out over the newly broken hinges on her door. And this time she doesn't think she's going to call a mechanic. This time, she's ready to pull out the toolbox and get to work on her own.
Eventually she'll be able to fix that door and let people in.

Warm Fuzzies

2008-04-22T18:01:00.000-04:00

Comfort's found in the strangest of places.
He called me and i smiled, my most forgotten of faces.
She huggled me, and i laughed, really laughed
Felt it here, where that freezer was
And i'm struck with the knowledge that i'll be okay, because
In that process of precipitation
You can't forget the condensation
Behind those clouds, there is the sun
Because without it there wouldnt be clouds in the first place
It may sound like science, but i'm talking hearts, too
Cause where there were two pieces there's now one, anew.

2008-04-20T00:38:00.000-04:00

Should i cry some more?
Or will i be okay? Emily Dickinson says "first the chill, then the stupor, then the letting go"... why am i waiting so expectantly for the stupor? I've never had such a desire to stop feeling... to stop thinking, to stop moving... to have enough time to think and not think at all... to make a decision... to stick with it... to not hurt, just not hurt...

Passing Thought

2008-04-20T00:21:00.000-04:00

I have lived the life of maniacal whims
Foolish things, passing fancies,
White lies and fake rings

I have lived the life of maniacal whims
Seize the day, feel the breeze
No safety nets, dont freeze

I have lived the life of maniacal whims.
I am you.
I am him.

I have lived the life of maniacal whims
Fed off it, subsistence
We are us, we are thin

Cookies and IceCream

2008-01-15T14:27:00.000-05:00

She's depressed, she says, clutching a pint of Ben and Jerry's with a moue of sadness caught on her face. Normally so strong, caught up in the "fuck it"s and the "i dont care"s, she fell in that quicksand pit of hearts and roses. And now she's sinking.
I hope that she can grab onto my bag of chewy Chips Ahoy and let me pull her out, but I know it's one of those rare fights she can only win alone. And i should know. I am, after all, in a fight of my own.
So friendship cheers us on from the sidelines and wipes the blood from our faces when we hit the mat. But friendship's a shitty coach in some ways, as it can't throw in the towel for us.
And how i wish i could throw in the towel for her...

BunnyBear

2008-01-15T04:23:00.000-05:00

My phone rings, as always, after 9PM. It's Friday, so I feel the rush of happiness in my stomach that tells me we can talk from now until Monday morning and I wont be charged a cent. His voice comes over the line as always, slightly accented, deep but high, soft and rough all at the same time. My pillow lies wrapped in my arms as I imagine that voice coming from the place beside me, with his skin beneath my fingers.
We talk, as always, about our respective days, and he, as always, tells me about the newest chick who has thrown herself in his direction. It wasn't always like this but I've become somewhat used to it. Lonliness is quite the bitch to deal with when you're a thousand miles from anyone who cares.
As always, I steel my tone and stay as lighthearted as possible, searching for the place in me that is glad for his pure honesty. It's difficult because I have to reach through the part that's terribly hurt and terribly jealous. For a few moments it feels like it's going to swallow me whole.
As always, he tells me he loves me.

Another day. Tonight things feel different, he's less nonchalant, hanging on my every word as if this time, he's actually listening. Things are not as they always are. For now, it feels as it always was.
Sometime during the night he tells me that he's committed to me. Finally, my heart adds. Finally committed to me. 'No more sleeping around' is the restriction he places on himself. I'm afraid to believe it, afraid of this change to things as they always are to what they always were.
As he always used to, he tells me he loves me.

The day after another. As always, he tells me he loves me.

Strange, stranger.

2007-12-10T21:37:00.001-05:00

His voice comes soothingly through the headset of my new phone, happily discussing everything and nothing at all. I dont even have to answer, just listen, as I love doing. He chatters on, anger or amusement coloring his voice at random intervals.
It's been a year and a half of this, his calls, my answering... we use each other as receptacles for the day's happenings, willingly loaned ears on demand. I have no fear of him lying to me or ever revealing my secrets, not ever. I trust him with my life, and, more recently, my heart.
He is my backbone, my best friend, my source of inspiration.

One day the calls slow, then stop coming.

When we do talk it's stilted "how are you?" conversations that bring nothing of our past intimacy into the speech. Neither one of us menions this new seperation for fear of scaring the other person off, or, in his case, perhaps in fear of telling the truth.

I feel like I have lost touch with a part of myself.

Train Love

2007-11-18T23:21:00.000-05:00

The train's gentle rocking is slowly lulling me into a sleepy haze, despite the fact that i am standing with what feels like a building in the bag on my back. I turn slightly to alleviate some of the pain in my shoulder and see the door opening at the end of the car.
An obviously homeless man slouches through the sliding door, bringing with him the reek of stale urine and unwashed skin. He's dressed in a heavy, decrepit coat dotted with stains, ripped jeans, and mismatched flipflops that reveal sore-laden feet and black toenails (despite the 15 degree weather on the surface). Behind him he drags a bag that looks thirty times as heavy as mine, filled to the brim with a plethora of odds and ends.
He shuffles down the length of the car slowly, asking for spare change in the polite, experienced voice of a person who has done this before. I glance down as I do a quick check of my pockets, hoping for spare change to give him that won't leave me bankrupt for the remainder of the week. I come up empty and lift my head just as his path crosses mine. Shrugging apologetically, I tell him i have no change, expecting him to move through the door next to me and continue on to subsequent cars.
Instead he stands and stares at me, saying something quietly.
As I strain to hear, I realize he is asking me to take him home.. and love him.
Suddenly money doesn't matter to this man who lives in poverty, without even enough money to purchase socks to stave off the chill. He wants love. Not food, not clothes, not even a blanket. Just affection.
I feel worse than i did about finding empty pockets on my person. The man in front of me wrinkles my nose with his smell, is standing too close, has only the bag with him, and none of it matters. I wonder why he can't have love like everyone else.
He tells me I'm beautiful and begs me to take him home with me. My heart cracks and I cant even think of the proper words to say besides "I can't, I'm sorry".
His face crumples and he asks me "What's wrong with me?". The answer is on my lips before I realize that it's true.
I let him know that I'm not good enough for him.
Long after the man has left the train and I have found my way home, I think about the answer and wonder at why it felt so right to say. I realize that I wouldn't have requested love over money or food.. the fact that he could appreciate something so simple and intangible is more than I ever could have expected of myself.
He taught me the power of love without even meaning to.

The Beginning

2007-11-18T17:38:00.001-05:00

Starting at the beginning and telling you why I'm writing.

Over the last few months (or years, give or take a few tragedies), life has been a bit of a bumpy road. Feeling lost and a little too sad too often, I set out to look at the beautiful complexities of life, instead of taking everything at face (and sometimes simply painful) value. Call it viewing the silver lining, if you will. Everything that happens in life comes accompanied by something good, and, if you dont see it, you can at least always get a pretty good story out of it anyway.
For this reason i took up the hobby of writing my life in a series of stories, describing detail, feelings, characters, and scenes as if I had made them up when I, in fact, have not. This doesnt necessarily mean that all of the things written here have happened to me. They have happened to someone, somewhere, someday, or will. The world is too complex for the situations that occur to never come up in the lottery of life.
And so I give you this, my ode to living. Story of a day.